P G Wodehouse - Indiscretions Of Archie

189 Pages·2016·0.92 MB·English

INDISCRETIONS OF ARCHIE
BY
P. G. WODEHOUSE
DEDICATION TO B. W. KING-HALL
My dear Buddy,--
We have been friends for eighteen years. A considerable proportion of my
books were written under your hospitable roof. And yet I have never dedicated
one to you. What will be the verdict of Posterity on this? The fact is, I have
become rather superstitious about dedications. No sooner do you label a book
with the legend--
TO MY BEST FRIEND X
than X cuts you in Piccadilly, or you bring a lawsuit against him. There is a
fatality about it. However, I can't imagine anyone quarrelling with you, and I am
getting more attractive all the time, so let's take a chance.
Yours ever,
P. G. WODEHOUSE.
CHAPTER I
DISTRESSING SCENE
"I say, laddie!" said Archie.
"Sir?" replied the desk-clerk alertly. All the employes of the Hotel
Cosmopolis were alert. It was one of the things on which Mr. Daniel Brewster,
the proprietor, insisted. And as he was always wandering about the lobby of the
hotel keeping a personal eye on affairs, it was never safe to relax.
"I want to see the manager."
"Is there anything I could do, sir?"
Archie looked at him doubtfully.
"Well, as a matter of fact, my dear old desk-clerk," he said, "I want to kick
up a fearful row, and it hardly seems fair to lug you into it. Why you, I mean to
say? The blighter whose head I want on a charger is the bally manager."
At this point a massive, grey-haired man, who had been standing close by,
gazing on the lobby with an air of restrained severity, as if daring it to start
anything, joined in the conversation.
"I am the manager," he said.
His eye was cold and hostile. Others, it seemed to say, might like Archie
Moffam, but not he. Daniel Brewster was bristling for combat. What he had
overheard had shocked him to the core of his being. The Hotel Cosmopolis was
his own private, personal property, and the thing dearest to him in the world,
after his daughter Lucille. He prided himself on the fact that his hotel was not
like other New York hotels, which were run by impersonal companies and
shareholders and boards of directors, and consequently lacked the paternal touch
which made the Cosmopolis what it was. At other hotels things went wrong, and
clients complained. At the Cosmopolis things never went wrong, because he was
on the spot to see that they didn't, and as a result clients never complained. Yet
here was this long, thin, string-bean of an Englishman actually registering
annoyance and dissatisfaction before his very eyes.
"What is your complaint?" he enquired frigidly.
Archie attached himself to the top button of Mr. Brewster's coat, and was
immediately dislodged by an irritable jerk of the other's substantial body.
"Listen, old thing! I came over to this country to nose about in search of a
job, because there doesn't seem what you might call a general demand for my
services in England. Directly I was demobbed, the family started talking about
the Land of Opportunity and shot me on to a liner. The idea was that I might get
hold of something in America--"
He got hold of Mr. Brewster's coat-button, and was again shaken off.
"Between ourselves, I've never done anything much in England, and I fancy
the family were getting a bit fed. At any rate, they sent me over here--"
Mr. Brewster disentangled himself for the third time.
"I would prefer to postpone the story of your life," he said coldly, "and be
informed what is your specific complaint against the Hotel Cosmopolis."
"Of course, yes. The jolly old hotel. I'm coming to that. Well, it was like
this. A chappie on the boat told me that this was the best place to stop at in New
York--"
"He was quite right," said Mr. Brewster.
"Was he, by Jove! Well, all I can say, then, is that the other New York hotels
must be pretty mouldy, if this is the best of the lot! I took a room here last night,"
said Archie quivering with self-pity, "and there was a beastly tap outside
somewhere which went drip-drip- drip all night and kept me awake."
Mr. Brewster's annoyance deepened. He felt that a chink had been found in
his armour. Not even the most paternal hotel-proprietor can keep an eye on every
tap in his establishment.
"Drip-drip-drip!" repeated Archie firmly. "And I put my boots outside the
door when I went to bed, and this morning they hadn't been touched. I give you
my solemn word! Not touched."
"Naturally," said Mr. Brewster. "My employes are honest"
"But I wanted them cleaned, dash it!"
"There is a shoe-shining parlour in the basement. At the Cosmopolis shoes
left outside bedroom doors are not cleaned."
"Then I think the Cosmopolis is a bally rotten hotel!"
Mr. Brewster's compact frame quivered. The unforgivable insult had been
offered. Question the legitimacy of Mr. Brewster's parentage, knock Mr.
Brewster down and walk on his face with spiked shoes, and you did not
irremediably close all avenues to a peaceful settlement. But make a remark like
that about his hotel, and war was definitely declared.
"In that case," he said, stiffening, "I must ask you to give up your room."
"I'm going to give it up! I wouldn't stay in the bally place another minute."
Mr. Brewster walked away, and Archie charged round to the cashier's desk
to get his bill. It had been his intention in any case, though for dramatic purposes
he concealed it from his adversary, to leave the hotel that morning. One of the
letters of introduction which he had brought over from England had resulted in
an invitation from a Mrs. van Tuyl to her house-party at Miami, and he had
decided to go there at once.
"Well," mused Archie, on his way to the station, "one thing's certain. I'll
never set foot in THAT bally place again!"
But nothing in this world is certain.
CHAPTER II
A SHOCK FOR MR. BREWSTER
Mr. Daniel Brewster sat in his luxurious suite at the Cosmopolis, smoking
one of his admirable cigars and chatting with his old friend, Professor Binstead.
A stranger who had only encountered Mr. Brewster in the lobby of the hotel
would have been surprised at the appearance of his sitting-room, for it had none
of the rugged simplicity which was the keynote of its owner's personal
appearance. Daniel Brewster was a man with a hobby, He was what Parker, his
valet, termed a connoozer. His educated taste in Art was one of the things which
went to make the Cosmopolis different from and superior to other New York
hotels. He had personally selected the tapestries in the dining-room and the
various paintings throughout the building. And in his private capacity he was an
enthusiastic collector of things which Professor Binstead, whose tastes lay in the
same direction, would have stolen without a twinge of conscience if he could
have got the chance.
The professor, a small man of middle age who wore tortoiseshell-rimmed
spectacles, flitted covetously about the room, inspecting its treasures with a
glistening eye. In a corner, Parker, a grave, lean individual, bent over the
chafing-dish, in which he was preparing for his employer and his guest their
simple lunch.
"Brewster," said Professor Binstead, pausing at the mantelpiece.
Mr. Brewster looked up amiably. He was in placid mood to-day. Two weeks
and more had passed since the meeting with Archie recorded in the previous
chapter, and he had been able to dismiss that disturbing affair from his mind.
Since then, everything had gone splendidly with Daniel Brewster, for he had just
accomplished his ambition of the moment by completing the negotiations for the
purchase of a site further down-town, on which he proposed to erect a new hotel.
He liked building hotels. He had the Cosmopolis, his first-born, a summer hotel
in the mountains, purchased in the previous year, and he was toying with the idea
of running over to England and putting up another in London, That, however,
would have to wait. Meanwhile, he would concentrate on this new one down-
town. It had kept him busy and worried, arranging for securing the site; but his
troubles were over now.
"Yes?" he said.
Professor Binstead had picked up a small china figure of delicate
workmanship. It represented a warrior of pre-khaki days advancing with a spear
upon some adversary who, judging from the contented expression on the
warrior's face, was smaller than himself.
"Where did you get this?"
"That? Mawson, my agent, found it in a little shop on the east side."
"Where's the other? There ought to be another. These things go in pairs.
They're valueless alone."
Mr. Brewster's brow clouded.
"I know that," he said shortly. "Mawson's looking for the other one
everywhere. If you happen across it, I give you carte blanche to buy it for me."
"It must be somewhere."
"Yes. If you find it, don't worry about the expense. I'll settle up, no matter
what it is."
"I'll bear it in mind," said Professor Binstead. "It may cost you a lot of
money. I suppose you know that."
"I told you I don't care what it costs."
"It's nice to be a millionaire," sighed Professor Binstead.
"Luncheon is served, sir," said Parker.
He had stationed himself in a statutesque pose behind Mr. Brewster's chair,
when there was a knock at the door. He went to the door, and returned with a
telegram.
"Telegram for you, sir."
Mr. Brewster nodded carelessly. The contents of the chafing-dish had
justified the advance advertising of their odour, and he was too busy to be
interrupted.
"Put it down. And you needn't wait, Parker."
"Very good, sir."
The valet withdrew, and Mr. Brewster resumed his lunch.
"Aren't you going to open it?" asked Professor Binstead, to whom a
telegram was a telegram.
"It can wait. I get them all day long. I expect it's from Lucille, saying what
train she's making."
"She returns to-day?"
"Yes, Been at Miami." Mr. Brewster, having dwelt at adequate length on the
contents of the chafing-dish, adjusted his glasses and took up the envelope. "I
shall be glad--Great Godfrey!"
He sat staring at the telegram, his mouth open. His friend eyed him
solicitously.
"No bad news, I hope?"
Mr. Brewster gurgled in a strangled way.
"Bad news? Bad--? Here, read it for yourself."
Professor Binstead, one of the three most inquisitive men in New York,
took the slip of paper with gratitude.
"'Returning New York to-day with darling Archie,'" he read. "'Lots of love
from us both. Lucille.'" He gaped at his host. "Who is Archie?" he enquired.
"Who is Archie?" echoed Mr. Brewster helplessly. "Who is--? That's just
what I would like to know."
"'Darling Archie,'" murmured the professor, musing over the telegram.
"'Returning to-day with darling Archie.' Strange!"
Mr. Brewster continued to stare before him. When you send your only
daughter on a visit to Miami minus any entanglements and she mentions in a
telegram that she has acquired a darling Archie, you are naturally startled. He
rose from the table with a bound. It had occurred to him that by neglecting a
careful study of his mail during the past week, as was his bad habit when busy,
he had lost an opportunity of keeping abreast with current happenings. He
recollected now that a letter had arrived from Lucille some time ago, and that he
had put it away unopened till he should have leisure to read it. Lucille was a dear
girl, he had felt, but her letters when on a vacation seldom contained anything
that couldn't wait a few days for a reading. He sprang for his desk, rummaged
among his papers, and found what he was seeking.
It was a long letter, and there was silence in the room for some moments
while he mastered its contents. Then be turned to the professor, breathing
heavily.
"Good heavens!"
"Yes?" said Professor Binstead eagerly. "Yes?"
"Good Lord!"
"Well?"
"Good gracious!"
"What is it?" demanded the professor in an agony.
Mr. Brewster sat down again with a thud.
"She's married!"
"Married!"
"Married! To an Englishman!"
"Bless my soul!"
"She says," proceeded Mr. Brewster, referring to the letter again, "that they
were both so much in love that they simply had to slip off and get married, and
she hopes I won't be cross. Cross!" gasped Mr. Brewster, gazing wildly at his
friend.
"Very disturbing!"
"Disturbing! You bet it's disturbing! I don't know anything about the fellow.
Never heard of him in my life. She says he wanted a quiet wedding because he
thought a fellow looked such a chump getting married! And I must love him,
because he's all set to love me very much!"
"Extraordinary!"
Mr. Brewster put the letter down.
"An Englishman!"
"I have met some very agreeable Englishmen," said Professor Binstead.
"I don't like Englishmen," growled Mr. Brewster. "Parker's an Englishman."
"Your valet?"
"Yes. I believe he wears my shirts on the sly,'" said Mr. Brewster
broodingly, "If I catch him--! What would you do about this, Binstead?"
"Do?" The professor considered the point judiciary. "Well, really, Brewster,
I do not see that there is anything you can do. You must simply wait and meet
the man. Perhaps he will turn out an admirable son-in-law."
"H'm!" Mr. Brewster declined to take an optimistic view. "But an
Englishman, Binstead!" he said with pathos. "Why," he went on, memory
suddenly stirring, "there was an Englishman at this hotel only a week or two ago
who went about knocking it in a way that would have amazed you! Said it was a
rotten place! MY hotel!"
Professor Binstead clicked his tongue sympathetically. He understood his
friend's warmth.